


of ritual madness and ecstasy

by izzygone



Category: Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Masturbation, POV First Person, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:22:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzygone/pseuds/izzygone
Summary: Oliver comes back over Christmas, but he's getting married in the spring so they just can't touch.





	of ritual madness and ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm supposed to be working on several TRC fics right now, but I read _Call Me By Your Name_ last night and just couldn't let go.
> 
> I've been dying to see the film but haven't yet, so this is entirely based on the book canon and is therefore written in first person POV. Sorry if that puts people off, it just didn't feel right any other way.
> 
> Not beta'd.

“I might be getting married in the spring.” The words echoed in my head, growing colder and crueler with each resounding repetition. He’d spoken the words to me on my balcony - _our_  balcony, it’d once been. I’d been smoking there, shirtless despite the increasing chill in the weather, waiting. _I’m happy for you_ , I’d said. Not even a fool might have believed me, and Oliver was rarely a fool.

Except, perhaps, in Rome when he’d kissed me against that wall, brazen for all the world to see I was his. 

And I’m still his, I know this, as does he, though he pretends not to now. 

I’d moved myself back into the little room, giving him my - _our_  - bedroom once again, or at least the pretense thereof as I had little intention of sleeping in any bed he had not lain in first ever again, so long as I could manage it.

 _Married in the spring_. The words rang again, and I could not bear them. 

He was downstairs now, enjoying a nightcap with my father, pretending everything was still as it was, as if he had not so little as an hour ago crushed my heart beneath his feet like grapes beneath the feet of Dionysus, god of wine and winemaking, of ritual madness and ecstasy.

I’d left the French windows and shutters of our shared balcony purposely unlocked, though at the time the purpose was entirely another, so it was easy enough to slip from my small room - where I’d been lying near-naked on my bed, letting tears run down my face like the waters of the Trevi fountain in Rome - and into our bedroom, which was dark and silent and utterly desolate without Oliver’s sweet smell in the air.

I climbed into his bed - my bed, our bed - knowing well that it’d be an hour or more before he retreated there. He’d wait until he was certain I was asleep, wasting the time away sipping grappa with my father or lying on his back on the rocks by the water he so liked, letting the damp spray chill him to the core.

I removed the last shreds of my clothing and slipped under the covers, not unlike I had once, so long ago over the summer. I discarded the blanket, wanting only to feel the lightness of the sheet - his sheet, my sheet, _our_ sheet, soon to be just mine again - against my bare skin. I touched myself like I had 5 months ago in this same place, stroking myself slowly thinking of his face, his physique, of the way he arched as he took me inside, when my hard cock rubbed over the spot inside him that made him ache and beg. I had a spot inside myself just like that, but I dared not reach for it now or else end this desperate dalliance far too early.

I thought of him how I had often through these long four months apart, of his mouth covering my cock in the morning and rousing me to hardness in my sleep, of his fingers exploring all my hidden spots, of his breath against my neck as he moaned his own name and I moaned mine. I could feel how the sheet was starting to soak through and was sticking to me as I bucked up into my own hand, chasing a feeling I knew I could not fully recreate without his eyes on me. 

It aroused me further, the knowledge that he would come to bed here later and find what I had done. Would he know immediately? No doubt he would smell it, the scent of sweat and semen in the air, evidence enough without the sticky wet spot drying in the mid-winter air. Would it arouse him, too? I wondered, surely it would. I could not so much as think of his sweet-salty spunk but get hard to the point of nearly spilling over myself. Maybe he’d realize what a fool he was, wasting such precious little time we had together. Surely I was not asking for too much - just a touch, a kiss, the press of skin against skin, his taste in my mouth and mine in his. I would be better this time, I’d swear it. He could go home, he could marry, it would be fine. I’d be happy for him so long as he just gave me _this_ , just one more week, just one more day in his arms. I’d give anything, I knew, I’d bear a lifetime of silence for just one more touch.

I was crying again, and I was fine with that. Let my tears stain this sheet just like my come, let him see how he’s ruined me. 

I’d recognize his footfalls anywhere, anytime, even from a hundred miles apart, and I heard them now - the telltale sound of espadrilles hitting the hardwood of our steps. I froze, the last of my tears sliding down my cheeks and asked myself _is this what I want_?

But yes, of course it was. Let him see me. Let him kick me out of my own bed, let him _try_. He could sleep with me here and let it be _our_  bed again or let him try out the little bedroom for once.

The door opened, letting light from the hallway fall over me where I lay, nudity covered demurely by a sheet like a blushing virgin bride, and I saw only the dim outline of his silhouette against the brightness outside.

“Elio,” his voice was low, barely a whisper, and he closed the door hastily behind him, the obvious fear of getting caught like this written across his shadowed face, “You can’t be here.”

I nearly protested - _my own bedroom_  - but I could not. His proximity invigorated me and I could not stop the small gasp escaping my mouth as a stroked myself more firmly under his gaze.

I could make out very little in the dark, though my eyes were probably better adjusted than his, just the shadows of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, now finally taking in properly the sight of me. I knew what I must look like - my hips bucking, my fist pumping my overstimulated cock, all this hidden only by a thin white sheet going translucent as I soaked it with my precome, the light of the moon filtering in through the unshuttered windows lighting me up like a debauched ghost in the night. 

He moved closer to me, then fell to his knees, clumsy like I’d rarely seen him except when drunk - perhaps lust drunk? He stayed knelt by the bed, like a man bent in prayer over a dying lover he was not in time to save, “Elio, you cannot do this to me.” 

I only whimpered, he was so close and I could nearly taste the sweet remnants of grappa on his breath.

“I’m about to be _married_ , Elio, I cannot touch you.”

I whimpered again, there it was, the word which had haunted me and brought me to this position, “You’re not touching me.” I whispered it before I even realized I was speaking.

He laughed, humorless and low, “Always wise.”

“ _Please_ ,” I whispered this too, though I did not know what I asked for. Touch me, kiss me, _fill me_. But I knew better than to hope for a touch. I kept at my cock, rubbing over the head where it was most sensitive, then down so I was nearly fondling my balls, then back again, desperate and rutting now that he was here again, “Kill me if I stop.”

He made a noise at that, something more like a kicked dog than a strong willed man, “I cannot touch you,” he said it again, as if it would hurt any less the second time, and I nearly protested again - but then he moved, fast as lightning and was on me - no, on the _sheet_ , no part of him touching me, no skin against skin - straddling my upper thighs so I could feel the heat of his body, but not him, not his skin, not his cock. It was nearly enough.

I stared into his eyes and saw all the things I’d seen the summer before - steel, coldness, lust - and I did not stay my hand. I stroked myself faster, crying out as my knuckles scraped against the underside of his jeans. Only these things separated us: this sheet, those jeans, his underwear, if he wore any. If this was the closest we could get, would ever get again, I would take it and I would take it gladly.

Take me, take me, I’m all yours.

He was watching me, my face, my heaving chest masked by the sheet which was beginning to stick to me as I worked up a sheen of sweat, then down, to where my hand was relentless over my cock, spreading my wetness around to ease the way, my knuckles brushing against his clothed crotch again and again. 

“I’m not touching you,” He said again and I agreed, repeating it back to him. He wasn’t touching me, I wasn’t touching him. There was nothing wrong with what we were doing, if we could just pretend, if we could just get away with this just one time, he _wasn’t_  married, not yet. 

I could tell for a moment that he did not quite know what to do with his hands. I wanted them on me, even through the sheet, if he would just rub them across my chest - but he didn’t. Instead, he used one to steady himself above me, pressing it against the jut of my hip bone and making me hiss with want. The other he brought to his lips and kissed, first gently, briefly against each finger tip, making me squirm with desire, then he began to lick, then he sucked one digit into his mouth, eyes never leaving mine, the pink of his tongue absolutely breaking me as he whispered his own nameand I bucked so I thought I might dislodge him and came hard and hot into the sheet, calling out my name in response.

In my daze, I could not compute how he somehow managed to do several things at once - he pulled the sheet down, exposing my chest to the chill of the air, then moved up my body, unfastening his jeans as he went. He straddled my chest, not unlike the way he had our first night together, and stroked himself, once, twice, thrice and then came messy and hot across me. It was glorious and _finally_ , it was like we were touching. 

He pulled off immediately, leaving me empty, cold and bare, not unlike how I’d felt the first morning after we’d lain together. He pulled the sheet down further and I balanced myself on my elbows so that I might see as he leaned down, so _close_  like he might clean me with his mouth - but instead his tongue found the sheet and I saw that he was licking me clean from it instead. This prompted me to reach down as well, my fingers sliding through the goo he’d left there so that I could bring it to my mouth and savor the taste of him.

In this way, I cleaned myself and felt as close as I could ever feel to him again.

After we’d finished, when my chest was clean and the sheet had gone damp less from my seed than from his saliva, he pulled it up and covered me again. _Join me_ , I thought, madly, wishing more than anything to reach out and pull him close again but _I’m not touching you, you’re not touching me, no speeches,_ and I knew I could not. 

Instead, he pressed a chaste kiss on the pillow next to my ear so I heard it but could not feel it, whispering only “Goodnight, Elio,” though it felt to me more like _goodbye_. 

**Author's Note:**

> I take prompts and sometimes even actually complete them. Find me at the-real-izzygone on tumblr.


End file.
